


Dental Work

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Brock Rumlow is a bag of dicks, Canon-Typical Violence, Dentistry, Gen, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Mind Control, that's his superpower, unhelpful dentistry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'... if he hadn't witnessed the Pet Assassin Maintenance Crew using that thing to do dental work on the Soldier himself without getting their hands bitten off, he'd have to ask himself if SHIELD had a kinky bondage dungeon hidden away somewhere.'</p>
<p>The story of the first time the spider gag came out - cross-posted from the trash meme.<br/>(or, the story of how 'Blood From A Stone' sent the plot bunnies running rampant once again)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Зубной кабинет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336811) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen)
  * Inspired by [Blood from a Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322656) by [shinelikethunder (tenlittlebullets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenlittlebullets/pseuds/shinelikethunder). 



> All credit goes to ShineLikeThunder for the aforementioned masterpiece of trash; this is a poor shadow of that, but do please mind the tags - especially if teeth, dentistry, and tooth extraction are on the squick list for you.

It hits him in the face, hits him hard. One of the team makes a high-pitched shriek that Brock will definitely remind the poor fucker of later - like an elderly aunt folding up in a broken lawn chair, circa 1985.

“Asset down!” someone yells unnecessarily, and Brock snarls at them; they’re only making it worse. The target is bleeding out in the gutter, flopping like seal. It’s enough. They’re done here.

The Asset is on his knees and Brock is too pissed to be gentle, grabbing his hair to try and get him up. He’s heavy and he’s not having it. Brock dodges a swipe from the metal arm, not wanting his balls turned to pulp.

“What’s the matter, big guy?”

The transport is backing up fast towards them: whatever it is, he’d better be able to deal with it in the next twenty seconds.

Some of the red spots decorating the ground aren’t from the target. Brock’s head catches up to it as his hand is already grabbing the mask, ripping it away. A gush of blood follows, splattering forth, and the Asset chokes and hacks up a tooth onto the asphalt.

“That’s it?” Brock says, pointing to the errant tooth, intending it to be a mockery ( _ walk it off _ ). The question comes out more annoyed than he’d intended. The Asset is already back on his feet, poised with anything but the usual post-mission contentment. Ready for a fight. They can’t afford a fight, not here.

Brock brings him in via the time-honoured method of grabbing his harness and swearing at him in Russian. He comes with ill temper, snorting breaths through blood and mucous.The rest of the team flatten away fast enough to make the van rock.

“Sit the fuck down!” Brock puts himself between them and the Asset - not out of personal heroics, but to avoid any fatal eye contact.“You’re all pussies. You think he doesn’t know that?” Someone attempts to protest. “Sit down! Shut up!”

He tries to take a look and almost loses his fingers instantly to a frantic snap. There’s a faint whining sound from the back of the van. “I said shut UP!”

The team fall dead silent. Brock takes a deep breath: he needs to cool it. The rest of them take his bullying at face value - nothing personal, as long as he’s doing his job. The Asset doesn’t. An aggressive handler riles him up, until he’s unstable, somewhere between fear and rage and very,  _ very  _ dangerous. It’s part of the reason Brock has this job: despite appearances, he can dispense with the drill-sergeant act if he needs to.

(Plus, as with most HYDRA ‘promotions’, the previous guy took a bullet to the head. Soviet slug, no rifling).

He sinks to one knee and puts out a hand, as if such fragile flesh could hope to hold back a force of nature. “Hey. Look at me.”

Most people don’t like having that laser-focus gaze attached to their face. Pierce seems to relish it (Pierce is not most people). Brock doesn’t mind too much. He likes the feeling that he’s making an impression.

“How’s your nose, huh?” He takes a cloth and wipes at the blood. It’s sticky already, and by the time they get back, any broken bones will be well-knitted. Purely enviable. “You lost a tooth back there. Shoulda kept that, big guy. Put it under your pillow.”

Whether the Asset understands is open to debate, but Brock always rambles at him anyway. The techs have assured him that it’s a terrible idea - who knows what long-buried associations he might dredge up? - to which Brock always counters that his boot is a terrible thing to be lodged in someone’s unsuspecting nerd ass. They’ve agreed to differ, for now, and the strike teams show a significantly higher survival rate with him as handler.

“Anything else come loose in there? C’mon, open up. You sure you don’t want me to see, before we get back? It’ll make it a  _ lot  _ easier.” The Asset refuses. Brock sighs. “Your funeral.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re gonna go see the dentist,” Brock tells him, unable to keep the tension from the air. They’ve never really done anything like this before. Routine inspections of highly dangerous parts - the teeth, the metal arm, pretty much all the parts - are usually done straight out of cryo, when he’s weak and shivering and drugged to the eyeballs. And they  _ still  _ strap him down for it. Now he’s on his feet and fully aware, and Brock has to get him from here to the (hopefully) capable hands of the techs without anybody’s spine being snapped. They could sedate him - but that would mean coming at him with a loaded needle, and for what? About ten minutes of dozy compliance before someone got caught off-guard and had their ass handed to them. Better not to risk it.

“You know what the dentist is? Huh? You even have those back in ‘43?” A dig he can’t resist, though it’s risky. The Asset shouldn’t know what went on in ‘43. He shouldn’t know what went on last week, if the wipes are doing their job. But Brock has seen him remember things he shouldn’t be able to remember. It’s not something they talk about. It’s probably a shortcut to Pierce’s hit-list, letting them know that you’ve noticed..

“He’s gonna look at your teeth. Now I know you wouldn’t show ‘em to me, but someone’s gonna have to get in there eventually.”

Pierce himself hasn’t shown up for this potential shitshow, and Brock admires the man a little for that. Makes it look like he trusts them to not fuck up, when in reality he just values his life. He’s probably watching through the surveillance feed; the presence of the camera itches at the back of Brock’s neck, but he doesn’t look round. Keep up the illusion that they’re handling this on their own - ‘they’ being the dentist (perspiring slightly; must be new to this), three techs (nerdy), two guys with big guns (obligatory) and Brock (underwhelmed).

The Asset sinks into the chair without complaint, swipes with his tongue at the dried blood around his mouth, and  _ stares  _ at the dentist. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of the man’s neck.

Brock sighs and clears his throat.

“Soldier. Eyes on me.”

It’s the least he can do, even if the others privately consider him a fucking weirdo for  _ wanting _ the Asset to look at him. He’ll take that over having this little endeavour sunk before it even begins.

He sometimes wonders whether Sgt Barnes had the same power in his gaze. The old photos make it seem like he probably did - only difference being, back then, he could switch it up. It’s easy to imagine him going from cold-blooded killer to everyone’s best friend. Now he’s stuck on Option 1.

(Most of the time.)

“How do I…? Ah, you need to….” The dentist has crept up to one side, ready to do his thing - but even if he’s on HYDRA’s payroll, he’s probably used to more cooperative (or less conscious) patients. “He won’t….”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Brock steps closer, motioning the heavy weapons to stand back for now. They’ll do their thing if he needs them to. “Open your mouth.”

The Asset’s leaden stare flicks from Brock to the dentist’s tray of tools and back, like a metronome. Brock could swear that he looks sceptical.

“He ain’t gonna hurt ya.” That might even be true, who knew? “He’s just gonna look at your teeth.”

Teeth, apparently, being one of the few things that pose a problem for serum-enhanced healing. Knocked out, they’ll regrow in days, but a crack or chip won’t fix itself without intervention. Hence, the intervention. If he’ll let them.

“Open your mouth,” Brock orders, a little more harshly. Disobedience is rare, but the punishment for this must seem better than the task itself. The Asset has strange priorities sometimes. He leans closer to get the point across, stare him down, maybe grab his head and force him. “C’mon, soldier. You know you want to.”

“Um…” the dentist says, and it’s enough to distract Brock for a second.

The restraints jerk but hold and all he feels is air across his nose as he jumps back with a cry of “SHIT” that has weapons raised before anyone can blink. His heel hits the floor and he balances, brings himself back on a level because there’s no way he’s falling on his ass in front of these guys. He’d never live it down.

“Guess it doesn’t like that idea, boss,” one of them says. “You ok?”

“I’m ok,” Brock says - he’s more than ok, he feels  _ alive _ with the adrenaline. Happens every time. “Stand down.”

The Asset breathes hard once, twice, then relaxes. His expression is mild, lost. He doesn’t look like he just tried to bite a man’s face off.

“The fuck was that for?” Brock raises a hand but decides against it. Only Pierce can slap lethal weapons around and get away with it. He’s not putting any appendages near there. He takes out his stun baton instead, and doesn’t waste time on words.

Credit where it’s due, the Asset flinches from a shock on his bare flank that would have a normal man squealing.

“You try that again,” Brock says, “you get more of this.” It’s a standard exchange, although he tries not to do it too often. If he’s in the wrong mood, he can’t stand that wounded post-correction gaze on him; it already made him feel something tight and uncomfortable even before he visited the Smithsonian. “Behave.”

The dentist tries his luck, fingers hovering, and a couple of snaps is all it takes to persuade him that that’s not a good idea. The threat of digit loss really sharpens a guy’s reflexes.

“What should we do?” he says, about ready to give up.

Brock is willing to admit that they might as well leave it (and break the Asset’s jaw to teach him a lesson, because surely that’s what Pierce will want) when one of the techs pipes up “Sir.”

“What do you want, poindexter?”

“The name’s Pritchard,  _ sir _ .”

Brock knows this one. The team wasted no time in naming her ‘Prick-hard’, and summarily sending two newbies to write it on her lab coat in permanent marker. And yet, she’s still polite and civil to them without fault. One of the newbies took some shrapnel to the throat in a ‘weapon malfunction’ a while back, bled out. Brock senses Pritchard is playing the long game. He likes the lady.

“There’s something we’re authorised to try in this instance.”

Likes her, except they all speak like a fucking tech report and it drives him insane.

“Like what? Hold his fucking nose? Go for it, I’m watching.”

Pritchard holds up the solution and there’s a moment of silence before a repressed part of Brock’s memory (the part where Agent Rollins dragged him into a seedy, darkened shop in a seedy, darkened part of town and said  _ get a load of this hardware _ ) leaps to the surface and tells him exactly what it is.

He still says “What the fuck is that thing?” as if he doesn’t know. Keeping up appearances.

“It’s a… well, I don’t know what they call it exactly.” Implying ‘people that are into this stuff’, as if the she and all the rest don’t secretly get off to it. “But it’ll keep his mouth open.”

The Fist of HYDRA in a spider gag. Brock takes a second to process that image before he takes up his stun baton again.

The dentist has a front-row seat to a demonstration of exactly how much it takes to make the Asset scream, and it looks as if they’re enjoying it about as much as each other. But HYDRA hire the right people for the job, and he recovers his composure as Pritchard’s nimble fingers get their opportunity and quiet descends.

Brock removes the baton from the join between flesh and metal - the connections in the arm make a nice feedback loop which intensifies any shock given to that area - and stores it back on his belt.

“There you go.” He’s addressing everyone, in truth, but his eyes are on the Asset, furious and now rather helpless. “Don’t look at me like that, big guy. You brought this on yourself.”

It looks uncomfortable at best. The edges of the legs dig deep into his skin, and his jaw is stretched wide. It’s strong enough, or maybe painful enough, that he can’t compress it, can’t bite through it. Blood seeps from a couple of places along his teeth - evidently they’ve disturbed whatever damage was done in the field.

“Ok.” The dentist raises his surgical mask (Brock would personally have gone for a riot-police helmet) and delves in with a tiny metal stick. It’s the sort of harmless activity that nobody without a severe phobia is bothered by, and yet there’s all this fuss.

And more, still - a constant rumble comes from the Asset’s throat, a threat that he couldn’t carry out if he tried. Brock fights down a laugh and tells him to knock it off. He doesn’t listen, only hitches and swallows awkwardly and continues growling. The dentist seems only slightly perturbed, muttering numbers and grabbing for the little mirror.

“There’s a couple that are badly cracked,” he announces, making one of techs jump. (The idiot was staring, hypnotised, into the open cavern of the Asset’s mouth. He’s lucky that this reminder to pay attention isn’t a fatal one.) “You say that they... they won’t fix on their own?”

“Not that we know of,” Pritchard responds.

“But new ones will grow?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then they can come out.” He looks behind him, clearly expecting something that isn’t there, transported for a moment to his (no doubt immaculate and hi-tech) surgery. “Do we have Novocaine?”

Brock actually laughs at that.

“You think he’ll metabolise it too fast? I suppose if we gave him a -.”

“No, I think you’re too used to working on the fucking suits upstairs.” Brock comes forward and grabs a pair of pliers off the tray, pushing them into the man’s hand. “Just get to it.”

“But I can’t -.” He looks down at them, disbelieving.

“Yes you can.” Brock squeezes his shoulder as if reassuring him, but it’s a little too tight. You join HYDRA, you get your hands dirty.

The Asset is looking at the pliers. He puts two and two together and his whole body tenses. The plates on his arm shift,  _ click-click-click _ ; it’s not a conscious movement, same as the widening of his eyes. His throat works and he makes a soft sound that could almost be a whimper.

“I’m not sure if I should -.”

“Hell, I’ll do it for you.” Brock leans over, grinning. “What’s he gonna do?”

The longer you survive in this madhouse, the better you’re able to sense whether your confidence is misplaced. Brock has survived long enough to be chief handler, so when he reaches out and slides two fingers into the mouth of HYDRA’s deadliest assassin, he knows exactly how much danger he’s in. The growling intensifies, vibrating against his fingertips.

“Shh,” Brock says, and pokes the back of the Asset’s throat, making him retch. It won’t work more than once (apparently ‘control of reflexes’ is something they used to train for, back in the day), but once is enough. Saliva spills slick and wet between his knuckles. He pulls his fingers away, dragging them across the cool metal of the gag just to feel it, and wipes them on his shirt.

“See?” He pushes the dentist forwards, but stays close enough to witness it. There is a tiny but audible  _ crunch _ as the pliers close around one of the teeth. It tips in its socket. The dentist shifts his grip, palms probably damp beneath gloves. The Asset’s breaths come sharp through his nose and the servos in his metal fist grind uselessly.

“Ah, it’ll be hard to pull out,” the dentist says, and Brock swears he hears Pritchard mutter ‘that’s what she said’.

“You want help?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just closes his large hands around the dentist’s wrist and  _ yanks _ .

The sound is like pulling a stuck boot out of mud, only sharper - and swiftly eclipsed by the Asset’s wordless howl. The dentist lets go in alarm - Brock keeps hold of the bloodstained pliers as they rip free and the tooth skitters to the floor about a metre from their boots, broken neatly in half.

The Asset thrashes, making the chair groan. He’s panting and coughing, his fingers twitching, blood on his lips and sliding down his chin, painting the legs of the gag. The dentist reacts first - he might not have his fancy surgery but he has some of the equipment - and the aspirator whirrs into life, spiriting away any rogue fluids. The tube blushes deep red.

“Ok, ok.There we go.” His voice shakes only slightly, but it’s noticeable.

“What?” Brock looms over him. “Don’t wanna stain your tie?”

“No,” he collects himself, laying the tube down. “But it’s rarely that I’ve a patient about to inhale his own blood.”

“He won’t die from it,” Brock says, fairly sure of the fact.

“It’s not a chance I’ll take, thank you.” And there’s logic in that - anyone who damages the Asset is dog meat. He takes the pliers back and goes in for the second tooth.

It’s in a few fragments, which have to be winkled out one by one - the dentist switches to a smaller pair of pliers, only pausing to comment that these aren’t standard tools. Brock laughs and tells him that he’s obviously never conducted an interrogation. Bits of tooth come free with sharp twists - this time heard clearly in the relative quiet.

Brock can practically see the hairs standing on the back of the dentist’s neck, and he agrees: it’s fucking creepy sometimes how quickly the Asset gets used to new sources of pain. He’s twitching, and whining a little, but not screaming - and barely struggling, either. The only reason that the stun batons still work, apparently, is that he forgets what it’s like (that, and some improvements in technology over the past two decades or so). And they still have to keep turning them up. The remainder of the tooth is dropped into a dish.

“I’d like to see them when they’re grown back in, but the rest are fine.” The dentist runs a finger over the surfaces. “In fact, better than fine. There’s nothing wrong with them at all. What I’d give to have these….”

The low growling starts up again. This time, it’s directly in the dentist’s face; the Asset is starting to lean forwards, dripping blood progressively further along the man’s sleeve. The gag makes it look as if he’s snarling - which, to be truthful, he is.

“Oh, you’re gonna sass him  _ now _ ?” That gets a little attention, but not nearly enough for Brock’s liking. The dentist gulps. “Nah, it’s ok. He can’t hurt you,” which is about 80% factual, at the moment “he’s just being awkward. Which doesn’t come without consequences. Pull another one.”

“The rest are completely -.”

“Just pick one,” Brock says, in a tone that doesn’t allow disagreement. “Rip it out.” Now the Asset is interested, and there’s an immediate shrinkage, a folding of his whole body against the restraints. If he could speak, he’d be saying ‘ _please, please, I’ll be good_ ’ or some variation, in whatever language his brain gave him first. He can’t speak.

“You get what’s coming to you,” Brock tells him coolly, in response to the absent words.

The dentist deliberates between healthy teeth; not something he’s likely to have done before. His hand trembles only a little, but when he chooses one, the movement of the pliers is quick and sure. He has to brace his feet on the ground and heave, and it takes Pritchard helping him before anything happens. A sudden give, and the same meaty, sickening noise. The Asset cringes and wails, and Brock kicks his ankle lightly.

“You earned it. Shut up.”

Pritchard plucks the tooth from the concrete with the edge of her lab coat and inspects it. “One for the tooth fairy.” Brock likes her even more.

“You can keep it.”

The dentist steps back and strips off his gloves. “I think we’re finished here. Unless there’s anything else you want to do while….”

“No, we’re done.”

Brock signals for the guards outside to escort the man from the room - and probably towards the best payday of his life, assuming Pierce doesn’t just have him shot. Pritchard wraps her trophy in a tissue and slips it into her pocket, and Brock lets that go, because any one of them would do the same.

The Asset looks miserable. He’s retreated into whatever’s going on in his scrambled head and quiet, spit-flecked wheezing is the only sign that he’s conscious.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Brock says loudly, gaining a glance at least. “We’re gonna get that thing off you, and then you’re gonna go back to your cell and wait for them to put you on ice again.” He surveys the mess. “Maybe clean you up first. You’re a fucking horror show.”

His colleagues raise their weapons as he approaches, taking no chances this time.

The empty sockets where the teeth came out are raw and pink, seeping blood. Brock puts his thumb in and presses on one: it’s spongy, in contrast to the hard enamel around and the roughness of his skin. Like touching a rare steak.

“You gonna bite me again, big guy?”

The Asset hisses, drools blood and froth which drips from his lowered face onto his chest, but doesn’t twitch.

“Didn’t think so.”

Brock unfastens the gag and yanks it off. He hands it to Pritchard (who takes it with barely concealed disgust) and can’t resist staying there for a second, hovering his fingers close to slightly parted lips.

The Asset glances up, straight at him, straight  _ into  _ him, and his spine freezes over.

“Take him.” The guards move without hesitation. Brock heads in the opposite direction, to Pierce and the inevitable debrief - and though it’s impossible, he feels those eyes on him every step of the way.


End file.
